Post by Logan on Jun 10, 2012 4:27:45 GMT -5
Desolate journeys – so often harbingers of a learned and long-accepted loneliness – take on a new set of expectations when made in the company of Logan Duvall. Far from the stoic and begrudging silences Nathan assumes of a traveling companion, there is instead joking, laughter, and the man’s damnable devil’s smiles; all things which keep Nathan engaged, occupied and nearly oblivious of time. The day’s journey to the nearest town passes easily, and when they finally pull their horses up to take stock of their surroundings, a comfortable smile has made an enduring home of the marshal’s lips – one that hints at his wolf’s contentment, a deep satisfaction with the strange situation he’s found himself in. The animal hasn’t made so much as a peep since their last encounter, and Nathan aims to keep it that way.
The settlement they have entered puts their last stop to shame; it is a sprawling mass of hastily constructed buildings that have somehow acquired permanence, a boomtown evolved into a bustling center of trade over long years of hard-won prosperity. It is, all in all, a welcome slice of civilization. Stabling their horses, the men choose to separate briefly, and Nate spends his time scrounging for both information and supplies. There is no word of Ned Wallace, however carefully he casts about, and Nathan finds this discovery doesn’t trouble him as much as he’d expected; the outlaw always turns up again, however cold the trail runs – and the fact that he may well need to extend his partnership with Logan to hunt the man down doesn't hurt, either. Supplies are easier to come by, and less suspicious to the locals, but his final purchase of tobacco leaves the lawman’s pocket feeling alarmingly empty. Not for the first time, he curses the vice – but changes nothing.
After all, there’s always money to be made, if a man knows where to look.
Nate returns to the little hotel dominating the center of the town, the bustling saloon at its base a lively, cacophonous hot spot in the sun’s setting light. Gossip tells they even have a man in to play the piano, some nights, and the girls rank more towards entertainment and less towards blatant whoring. The marshal isn’t sure there’s much of a difference; the former may enjoy playing hard-to-get, but the game’s always the same, in the end. Inside, Nathan arranges rooms for himself and the hunter for the night – two rooms, he is strangely clear about – and then orders a whiskey to buy time until Logan arrives. There is a group of men engaged in a game of poker in the back of the bar, and the lawman nurses his drink while watching them, mind working slow. Two hands and a second drink later, he sees fit to join in.
By the time Logan decides to show up, Nathan is settled in comfortably – perhaps close to drunkenly – with a modest share of winnings before him, and a scantily dressed woman leaning on his shoulder. She is apparently intent upon merging her breasts with the side of his face, and though Nathan largely ignores her he is feeding off the attention, off the alcohol in his belly and a display of skin that has a flush running hot beneath his collar. Everyone loves a winner, after all, and she's not privy to the fact that he’s got no plans on bringing her to bed.
Despite his state, the marshal is quick to catch on to the hunter’s appearance – a thing that sets his wolf to pacing and winds his nerves up tight – and Nathan drags his eyes slow and obvious up the other man. An assessing look to anyone not wise to their game, but a hungry one when paired with Logan’s knowledge of their intimacy. ”You play cards, Duvall?” Nate’s words are accompanied by challenging stare and a crooked grin. Friendly competition is the closest he gets to flirting in their present company – in any company – and the drink in his gut makes him confident. ”Should sit a hand,” he encourages, nodding towards an empty chair. ”Play me.”
There is a reason he works alone -- trust is hard to come by and in Logan’s case, harder to impart. Past mistakes have seen the hunter robbed and betrayed, left with nothing more than his clothing and his gun. Suspicion and pessimism became survival instincts, caution and solitude a workable way of life. But as the days stretch on and as he slides into the comfort of camaraderie, pessimism bleeds away into optimism, and he no longer remembers what it is to suspect. Maybe it is his wolf, or maybe it is something deeper, but Logan trusts the marshal, feels comfortable enough in his presence to joke and to smile honest, real smiles. They share interests, they share goals, they share desires, and they share the dual-existence of man and beast. He could ask for no better partner and the thought of capturing Ned Wallace and drawing their trek to a close leaves an off-color, dull feeling scratching at his chest. That feeling persists as they draw closer to civilization.
Boomtowns are the best sources for information, for gossip, for anything a man might need. Logan knows that if they have a chance of hearing anything about Ned, it will be here in the bustling streets and populated buildings. The pair separate to see to their own errands with Nathan offering to handle the boarding arrangements. For his part, Logan is in need of ammunition and a new horse. The old mare has been lagging behind and he figures it’s time to sell her for profit and saddle something a little less ancient. He nearly runs his wallet dry on a two-year old gelding, a handsome gold and white paint with a calm disposition. Mustang blood, the man claims, and Logan has always preferred hardy over pedigree. The lack of money takes priority and while he asks around about Wallace and his gang, the hunter also inquires for work.
He finds few leads on either work or Ned and commits himself to investigating more later. This is a large town and Logan has a difficult time believing that no one knows anything. It is just the matter of finding the right person and the right means of making them talk. Patience is a difficult virtue to follow, but in a pinch Logan can manage, and in this case he doesn’t have a choice. The hunter returns to the hotel and skillfully avoids the drunkards outside while wondering if Nathan had any more luck with obtaining information. He pushes inside, brushes past the patrons and seeks out the marshal – who he finds red-faced, boozed-up and cuddled in close with a whore. His jaw twitches briefly as the only tell of his displeasure. Logan schools his face into a controlled mask and makes his way closer to the table, determinedly ignoring the way his wolf spits and bristles.
Given what happened at the homestead, Logan understands the importance of discretion. Storm-grey eyes look directly into blue and the hunter does not so much as smile when the marshal draws that hungry gaze over him. ”Sure I do.” A lie. Logan understands the basic mechanics of poker but he has minimal skill in the game. ”But I’m not typically one to play when there’s work to be done. Or did you forget about Wallace?” This earns a few stares from the patrons because Wallace is a known and generally feared bandit. It’s petty but calling the marshal’s commitment to justice into question makes him feel a little better about the woman. His attention shifts to her and he offers a roguish grin. ”Guess I can’t blame you for getting distracted, what with a pretty thing like that on your arm.” With that, the tension is artificially diffused but the two werewolves can feel the truth of it.
Logan slides into the unoccupied seat, adjusts his hat, and tosses the marshal a heated glance. ” Well, you gonna deal or not?” The lopsided grin he delivers is all teeth and no joy. He is running on bravado, on the intense jealousy his wolf is nearly suffocating him with. Logan may be god awful at poker and he may be about to make an ass of himself, but he figures a little supervision is in order. He wouldn’t want his partner to end up robbed of his winnings by a whore he’s taken to bed. He wouldn’t want his partner to take a whore to his bed in the first place. His wolf paces and snaps at the thought. There are images of teeth and hair and blood in his mind and Logan knows he’d never hurt anyone, but he understands the message his beast is trying to deliver.
Once the cards are dealt, it becomes clear that the hunter is distracted. He spends more time glaring over his hand at Nathan than paying attention to the cards. In his mind, he is formulating his own game, one where he holds all the cards and that smug bastard of a marshal is the one in the hot seat. ”You always been a betting man, Marshal?” Logan asks coolly as he looks at his hand and tries to remember if pairs are a good thing.
That mask of cool civility and roguish charm nearly breaks under the onslaught of Logan’s apparent anger – his disappointment. The man may be playing along, may be as practiced as Nathan at hiding those moments of telling emotion, but the marshal can feel it. His wolf can feel it, plain as day, and the creature rises high beneath his skin and comes into strength; a wild and willful thing intent on abandoning this foolhardy notion and handling the situation itself. Unfortunately for the animal – and likely for both men – Nathan is in control, and he has no plans on being placating. The beast may want to sidle in close and soothe, to pacify and beg forgiveness without rolling immediately over, but Nate is a stubborn, imprudent man. He has his heels dug in deep and the bit between his teeth, and if Logan feels he has some claim on him – even if Nate’s own wolf somehow agrees – he’s going to have to work for it.
So the lawman just keeps on smiling, though the expression runs hard.
”Was just telling Mary, here,” and Nathan slides a hand around the woman’s waist, ”that I’d made enough back to cover our rooms. And then some.” Assuming he quits while he’s ahead and doesn’t lose it all, as tends to be the gambler’s manner. But however nonchalantly he shrugs it off, Logan’s comment cuts deep; a persistent reminder that Nathan is little more than a common man with a star pinned to his chest, playing at games of justice and grandeur – and falling distracted at the first sign of liquor, of women, of cards. He sniffs once, rankled, and then shoulders the woman gently away from his side, removing his arm from about her. ”Game time, sweetheart. You just let the men play, first.” Like Nathan has some idea on what comes second – though his dark eyes are on Logan, and not the girl.
He deals; lets Logan cut the deck. The men settle to posturing and glowering over their cards, but Nathan is a practiced player, and despite his mind running rampant with images of the hunter (drawn up out of his wolf’s frustration and desperation), he affords the game enough attention to manage. ”I fancy myself good at it, yes,” the marshal replies after a moment, somehow avoiding a direct answer, and spreads a full house out before him. The girl claps and squeals her encouragement, and Nate very nearly feels a stab of guilt for leading her on, but the sentiment is nothing compared to the emotion his treatment of Logan elicits. There is no satisfaction in beating the man, and Nathan has no desire to part him from his money; the game quickly wears thin, clung to only through mule-headed stubbornness.
The whore plies him with another drink, then a second, and Nathan downs the alcohol without thinking. She thinks she’ll get lucky, spending his own money to butter him up, and though his motivations differ he does not bother to dissuade her; the marshal enjoys the cloud of carelessness that has settled about him, this ability to detach from the mess he’s made that fuels itself in a vicious feedback loop. He tries to keep himself on the rational end of drunk; suspects he’s failing. By the time he thumbs open the top button to his shirt – because when did it get so goddamned hot – Nate’s control is suffering, his betting and calls wild and risky, and in a final act of frustration the lawman throws down his hand with a snort.
”m’out.” It’s a sullen admission, but one he knows is right. Nathan has spent enough of his life losing at cards to know when to step away, even through his half-drunk fog. His wisdom must only pertain to gambling and not matters of the heart, because he clearly can’t apply it elsewhere, not even as the realization hits him slow and hard. His wolf has gone silent beneath the lull of liquor, and Nathan finds that worse – that it’s only him in his head, bitter and self-loathing. That the lurking need for the hunter is the lawman’s thought alone, entirely human, and so is his guilt. Sucking in a breath, the man sighs measured and deliberate, before rising from the stable with a forced amount of steady decorum; because Nathan might be something close to intoxicated, but he’s got a handle on his wits, and so refuses to look it. Not in front of Logan.
”You, uh,” the marshal begins cautiously, trying to remember how humility works – how it feels to let go of pride. ”I can show you your room. If you’re done playing.” And then likely be forced to leave him there, for all the good his arrogance has done; maybe he'll come back for the whore after all. He wets his lips slowly, and when the woman bumps up against him, expectant, Nathan pays her no mind. She does not exist – he only has eyes, humbled and cautious as they are, for Logan alone.
There are appearances to be kept and impressions to be made, this much Logan knows, but as the marshal plays nice with the woman tucked against his side, the hunter has trouble acting his part. Jealousy has no place here – it is not as if Logan can lay claim to anything. The way his wolf retaliates with a violent surge of possessiveness begs to differ. His animal, as ever, knows the truth of it and when Logan’s eyes drift to Mary, he nearly feels bad for the woman. She has no idea that she is caught between two wolves, has no idea what kind of terrible thoughts his beast is feeding him. Logan would never hurt her; there are certain things he will not fall to despite his wolf’s insistence. They remain as rust-red suggestions cluttering his mind and nothing more.
He beckons a drink over, thinks he’ll need the fuel, then draws back and fixes a heated grey stare onto the lawman. ”Is that so. And here I thought you were taking bets that you might not be able to handle.” He is not referring to the card game. His eyes move from Nathan to the girl and back, and that is enough to communicate exactly what game Logan is referencing. The poker match proceeds and it makes just as much sense as the first time the hunter played it, which isn’t much at all. He has a mind for tracking and shooting, not this, and with the added distraction of the squealing and love-struck woman, Logan realizes the game was a lost cause before the cards were even dealt. Stubbornness and a morbid curiosity of seeing how far Nathan will push this, has Logan stuck to his seat and ably losing what little money he has left.
Logan is still on his first drink by the time the marshal has downed his second, and he can only guess how much the man put away before this mess started. The game becomes less about skill and more about luck, and the hunter feels nothing but dissatisfaction when Nathan starts losing – and losing badly. Money changes hands and the men stop glowering and star hooting when they begin to win back what they lost. Logan has never been a betting man – not with the things that matter, not with the things that he might need. His grating nerves and wounded pride have him about ready to leave the table when the lawman takes the initiative. He glances up at Nathan’s flushed face, feels that pull of attraction, but it is dulled by a hurt sort of jealousy – a feeling that Logan refuses to acknowledge.
”A man’s gotta know to quit while he’s… behind,” he says in way of making his own exit, earns a few chuckles from the other players, and rises to his feet.
Surprise hits the hunter when the marshal addresses him but Logan does not show it. He keeps that stoic, cold expression squared onto his features and stares at Nathan for a long, deliberating moment. Pettiness rings like the taste of gunmetal at the back of his mind and Logan can’t shake it, doesn’t know if he even wants to. ”If you can remember where it is,” he jests with humorless eyes. Mary is still after the marshal like she’s a starving man and he’s a turkey dinner, and Logan offers the woman a sharp grin. ”Don’t you worry Miss, I won’t let the good marshal forget about you.” He ignores the way his beast flares violent and hot like acidic bile, and makes his way towards the rooms.
There is nothing but silence on Logan’s part during the small trek to his quarters; he does not so much as look at the other man. Once inside, the hunter turns his back to the marshal and begins to disrobe. He tosses his hat onto a dresser, his jacket over the top of a chair. Logan stops unbuttoning his shirt half way and sighs, incapable of ignoring the lawman any longer. He turns on his heel and steps towards him but stops short, lets the distance between them stand as a suggestion. ” Game’s over, Marshal, and it seems like you lost.” His pride is rankled and a caustic mixture of anger and jealousy has him reckless. ”But you got a nice girl waiting out there for you, so the night’s not a total waste,” he prompts and though Logan’s wolf is pacing and anxious, he ignores it. Animals don’t understand concepts like envy and betrayal but men do, they suffer from them, fall to foolish behavior. And the frustrating part of this is Logan isn’t sure why he even feels betrayed.
Logan should never assume but he does so anyway. ”Unless you were playing at something else riling her up like that.” This time it is an accusation. He does not think the intensity and heat in Nathan’s stare during the game was all his imagination. ”I’ll tell you what—since you’re a betting man,” his tone is challenging and more than a little angry, ” Leave now, find your whore and make a night of it. Or lock that door -- and stay.”
Nathan gathers his winnings – enough to leave him better off than when he’d started, but nowhere near what he’d require to have made this endeavor with Logan worth it – and starts after the hunter in a rush. The whore catcalls; he ignores her, lets her lean on Logan’s words and expect that he’ll be back. With the black mood that had descended between the two men, silent and brooding, the marshal hasn’t yet decided if her hopes are wrong – however little he desires her, however his wolf bristles and snaps at the very idea, Nathan’s bitterness demands indulgence. He’s fairly certain it’s irrational, even obsessive for him to feel so miserable at the thought of—of what, exactly? Losing Logan? A thing he doesn’t precisely have to begin with?
And yet the disgust in his gut clings to him, unhelped by the liquor that shares its home, nor by the wolf that stirs in his head. It will not bow to reason. If the marshal parts ways with Logan tonight as a result of pushing his own foolish game too far, it may yet be the worst fallout to come from his boozing and gambling, though he can’t wrap his head around why. Nathan may be tangled too close to this man for his own good, because the lawman’s pretty sure he has no right to feel the way he does, filled with whiskey or not. And where confusion would normally stop him dead in his tracks, draw Nathan into pause and analysis, Logan spins him around and begs him follow without thinking – and the man does, willingly, achingly, unable to resist. Even now, he falls in step unwittingly at the hunter’s heel like a hound, inexplicably driven to keep beside him.
The marshal shows the hunter his room without a word, and when no move is made to send him off he shuts the door behind him before leaning up against it, trying to clear his head. Nathan lingers in the entry, shifting with a wavering uncertainty that is so unlike him; his hands play on his lapel, unable to keep still, and he does not watch as Logan undresses. Trying to sober up takes enough of his concentration, though the chilly atmosphere in the room does it’s part – it’s only at Logan’s voice, at the weight of the other man’s eyes on him, that he manages to look up.
”Didn’t lose everything,” Nathan replies dourly, though from his expression it’s clear he knows they’re not exactly referring to his losses at cards. He scratches at the side of his nose with a thumb before pulling himself up straighter, smoothing the folds out of his shirt and finding his spine; the least he can do is not look the part of the down-on-his-luck drunkard. The marshal may be toying with something resembling an apology, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his pride.
”Riling her up? Or riling you up?” The punch Nate had wanted that statement to have is lacking; he comes off as more genuinely inquisitive than he’d like, and narrows his eyes in suspicion to drive the point home. ”You’ve seen how I gamble with a drink in me,” he shoots back, still trying to find that fire that normally supports his words. He fails; they fall flat, betray his hesitance. He has no fear of the gunman himself, but every last concern over being driven from this room. Whatever Logan intends, whatever his bet, has to be worth that risk. ”…and I know what I want. So maybe I think I like my odds right here.” Blue eyes match Logan’s hard stare measure for measure, intense and determined; Nathan reaches out and latches the door shut with a palm, finalizing his commitment.
The liquor in his bloodstream runs his thoughts slow but his veins hot, and Logan’s presence alone offers him some measure of clarity. ”But you’re a cheat if you don’t tell a man what he’s playing for.” Nathan steps away from the door to close the gap between them, though he remains at arm’s length, wary of the anger that laced the gunman’s tone; he is careful to not overstep, though the offer of a challenge has him wound taut. The wolf is awake, now, growling and snarling in displeasure, because neither man nor beast appreciate being left so in the dark. ”She’s got nothing I want,” the lawman admits, raising a hand to run the collar of Logan’s shirt between his thumb and forefinger. ”’les you throw me out, maybe.” And his grip grows tight. ”But if you’re askin’, well. I’d rather keep my money down on you.”
There is a pull at the back of his neck; his metaphoric hackles are standing on end. Logan’s wolf is pacing, disturbed and uncertain, desperate to find solid and stable ground. The animal knows what belongs to it, to Logan, even when the hunter is reluctant to acknowledge the truth. He figures why invest in something that will not last, because things like this never do. Despite the pessimism, there is a fledgling hope, a muted voice of truth that says he is already invested. Grey eyes draw over the lawman’s face and something feels compromised; the memories of Mary’s smiles and bubbling laughter ring sharp in the gunman’s mind. Possessiveness he can understand and handle, but the marshal is tugging at strings Logan did not even realize were there. He is drawn to this man and his beast cannot be blamed, not fully. It is with a stoic expression that Logan reins in his warring emotions, finds his resolve and waits for Nathan to make a decision.
The sound of the door latch sliding shut brings with it a surge of relief but Logan is too proud to show it. He inclines his head in an arrogant manner, all cockiness and smug smirk – playing the part of the big bad wolf as opposed to the wary hound. ”You had her fooled. Hell, you had that entire room fooled.” The accusation dips low when Nathan reaches for his collar. Logan glances down and tries not to read too much into the way his body automatically leans closer, like Nathan possesses a separate kind of gravity. ”I won’t throw you out,” he says as he covers the hand gripping at his shirt with his own. ”As long as you play by my rules.” Nathan is the one with the star pinned to his chest but here, in this room that he owns for the night, it is Logan who speaks with authority. He thinks maybe the marshal could use a lesson in manners and behavior, thinks he might be the one to teach him.
A scoundrel’s smirk lights over his features and Logan pushes Nathan’s hand away. ”First rule-- No touching unless I say that you can.” The marshal had him sitting frustrated, impatient, and angry on the other side of that poker table, and Logan aims to return the favor. He draws away, languidly makes his way towards a chair and sits down. The hunter throws his booted feet onto a small round table and eyes the lawman expectantly. ”As for the other rules, you don’t get to know them – not yet.” His pettiness has since abated and though Logan wears a bold mask, he is still wary, still looking to make sense of whatever the hell has him so out of sorts. Simple jealousy is too easy an excuse, too shallow. There have been women lost to richer, more clever men. There have been bounties stolen under his nose, contests lost. Nothing has ever had him so twisted as this – and all Nathan had to do was smile at that damned girl. ”Last chance, Marshal. You’re either all in, or you’re out.” If Nathan decides that this is a gamble not worth taking, Logan’s not sure what he will do. Just thinking about it has his tongue tasting bitter and his heart stinging.
None of his trepidation shows and Logan delivers a cool, unrelenting look straight at the other werewolf.
”And if you’re in, well, I suppose you better get to stripping.” The control he has is assumed, this he realizes. It is nothing more than an illusion, a gift if the marshal so chooses to part with it. He is not sure of his endgame and is improvising as the minutes pass, but Logan knows what he wants and his wolf knows what he needs. It is enough to guide him and as it is so often regarding Nathan, Logan defers to his instincts. They have yet to lead him wrong. ”Come on, Marshal. It’s time for you to ante up.” Nathan owes Logan nothing and yet the hunter feels like he is due a payment.
And he’s hoping to collect.
With the sound of that lock clicking home – a confirmation of their matching goals – the atmosphere in the small room changes subtly; Logan is back in his element, controlled and self-assured, and that is a display Nathan knows how to respond to. His want to step in and close that final distance between them is abandoned at the gunman’s firm words, and Nathan drops his hand to his side with a curious look, left hanging and alone in the center of the room. He would think he was being refused if Logan’s statements didn’t say otherwise – though they hint at a denial of another source, one that has his blood running hot. ”No touching,” Nathan repeats, as though mulling the phrase over. The marshal is not a man used to patience, not in this, but the thought alone sets him stirring, alive with desire.
”I’m not sure that’s fair,” he questions, voice low. But Nathan is in no position to make the rules, to even object to them, not when Logan is in possession of what he wants. Not when he knows the lengths he’d go to just for a taste. ”I’m in.” Whatever thoughts the lawman had for making Logan jealous, for seeing this through and teaching the man a lesson in independence and want, it all fades in the light of the hunter’s smooth and inherent authority. The piece of Nathan that may have resisted this for the sake of his masculinity, of his autonomy, has long since rolled belly-up – Logan is a force he cannot deny, a thing the marshal requires to feel complete, however confusing the notion. That Nathan must first atone before finding that satisfaction is a small price to pay, least of all when he finds himself enjoying it.
There is no battle to defy the man because there is no piece of him that does not want this, a fact he knows he can blame neither on alcohol nor animals; Nathan relinquishes control, and lets Logan command the evening.
He bends forward, brow furrowed, but it is more in concentration than frustration. There’s a steady amount of whiskey burning away in his gut, and though Nate’s made a good show of sobering up and speaking clearly, it’s still damned hard to balance on one foot. Boots discarded, the marshal straightens unsteadily, running a hand over the front of his pants, his belt; he pauses there, meets Logan’s gaze with a slight, but headstrong incline of his chin, and then his hand moves on. It’s at the collar of his shirt that he settles instead, where his necktie and one button have already, so conveniently, been undone for him. Deft fingers make their way down the front of his shirt, revealing skin in the wake of each slow unfastening, until Nathan finally shrugs out of it entirely.
The air isn’t cold, but Nathan can feel the hair on the back of his neck rise, the cool sensation of exposure – of Logan’s eyes upon him – driving a shiver down his spine. They have certainly been more intimate, but this somehow goes beyond a thing like gratification or pleasure, beyond what may have amounted to an excuse; this is Logan, real and imposing, taking him in for the first time with intent. There is no needy distraction of skin on skin, of heated lips and desperation, nor hiding their sidelong glances – there is only Nathan, half naked, and the eyes that watch him. He sucks in a quick breath and unbuckles his belt; tosses it towards his boots, and removes his pants in one swift, if wobbling, motion.
Nathan stands slowly, raking his eyes up from Logan’s boots to his face, where they remain; for though he has acquiesced, there is a challenge even in this, in heeding the gunman’s command with some modicum of easy confidence. Nathan drops his hands from his groin – not that they’d been doing much of a job covering him up in his current state – and he rolls his shoulders back lazily, weight shifted to one side.
”I called your bet.” Though it’s an act of will to remain where he is, and not simply crawl into the other man’s lap – but that would be breaking the rules, and Nathan’s decided he’s fond of this game. ”So are you gonna raise, or are you ready to fold?” Like the marshal can understand if the sight of his body makes Logan want to give in – and that it’s okay, because who could blame him? The familiar rules of their game of competing arrogance has a smirk lingering at the edges of his mouth, and though the hunter may have all the cards, Nathan will sure as hell bluff his way through this to get what he wants.
Even if his ultimate intent is, in fact, to lose.
